Faults
by punurple
Summary: The adults of the HP world remeber their faults. Ch2-Minerva explains her trials with her temper
1. Flight

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the situations. Therefore, kindly remove your hand from the speed-dial button for your lawyer. Thank you.

A/N: Believe it or not, my brother came up with the idea for this story, helped me brainstorm, and then suggested that I write one for each teacher. Such a good little guy, when he wants to be. Also, an enthusiastic thank you to my beta Mini Minerva, for putting up with my infrequent writing.

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Flight

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Most people think that I was born with a broom in my hand, that I was a natural flyer. I just smile at them, shake my head, and change the subject.

Truthfully, I was born with the love of flight. The speed and agility of birds amazed me. Hawks were my favorite to watch; they just floated on the breeze, letting it take them where it willed. I always wanted to be in the sky on my own wings, letting a swift zephyr take me away.

Not having wings, I would pester my father endlessly to give me flight. Refusing to transfigure me into a bird, he would charm a pillow to zoom me around the room. Under his careful watch, of course. My mom would have an epileptic fit, but dad would just smile and say, "Let her fly."

By the time I was old enough to mount a broom, I wanted one of my own. I had my eyes set on a Silver Arrow, the fastest broom at that time. My father couldn't allow it though. We lived in my mother's muggle neighborhood, and the risk of being seen was high.

I had to settle with flying on my father's shoulders. That was fine by me, seeing as I was a daddy's girl. He was a tall man, always towering over the rest of a crowd. We were close, and only he could calm me down when my temper was high, which was pretty often. He also advised me to follow my dreams and to stand by what I believe in.

When I received my Hogwarts letter, dad and I went to my first Quidditch match to celebrate. It was the Holyhead Harpies vs. Puddlemere United. The speed of the game, the excitement and the flying made me an instant Quidditch fanatic. My father, chuckling as we walked to the portkey, told me to do well in school and we would see about Quidditch.

The minute we got home I began reading my schoolbooks. I was sorted into Ravenclaw that fall, the perfect house to help me along the way. The second week into school, my year had its first flying lesson. I was ecstatic and ready to get up into the sky, to be as the birds I always envied.

Waiting by the brooms, I looked at the others. Most of the Hufflepuffs looked scared, while everyone else appeared to be nervous. Professor Histen came out in his blue robes and dragon hide boots and gloves. He was young and generally liked by the student population. What I liked about him most was that he was the flying instructor.

Our first task was to call our brooms to our hands. No matter how much force I used when saying "Up" I couldn't get the broom to rise. It was rather frustrating, not being able to do the simplest part of flying.

My broom finally did come up, right into Dustin McCray's head. He wasn't too happy, but I was. I apologized, but smiled all the same.

After mounting our brooms (which I could do correctly due to practicing on the kitchen broom at home) we had to hover in the air. I had no trouble getting up. In fact, I shot straight up. I was high, too high for Professor Histen's liking. The other kids crowded around as he yelled for me to come down. I didn't want to, but I did, crashing right on top of him in the process.

After that lesson, I didn't have much more trouble with my flying. I eventually became pretty good; good enough to make the Quidditch team as a beater in my third year.

My father, as proud of me as he was, has never seen me play. He died in a splinching accident before my first game. Even now, I follow the advice he gave me years ago.

Days playing Quidditch against Michael "Hardball" Potter and McGonagall "The Ace" prepared me for professional Quidditch. The Harpies took me on as a beater, and I enjoyed it until a hit to the shoulder put me out of play. Dumbledore gladly hired me as the school's flying instructor.

Now, as I walk to the Infirmary with Neville Longbottom, I think of the trouble I had learning how to fly, and why I laugh when someone mentions my skills. I'm thankful for my father's advice and my understanding professor. I've lived my dreams of playing Quidditch, and now spend my days teaching others what I love. As I watch them try their hand at flying, I think of my own blunders.

I'm finally flying on my own wings, and damn does it feel good.

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End

If you would kindly review my story, I would be forever thankful.


	2. Temper

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world and the characters within are not mine. Thank you for taking the time to read this disclaimer so I won't be sued.

A/N: The second chapter of "Faults," and this sucker took me two rough drafts to write. Darned muse was being a pain. Special thanks to Jestana for giving me the idea to write about her temper and for Freelancer for a little bit of title help. And as always, thanks to my numero uno beta, Mini Minerva.

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Temper

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The Scots are always stereotyped as having a temper not to be challenged; the McGonagalls have one that isn't to be touched with a ten-foot wand. I happen to have that very temper.

When I was born my Aunt Tess took one look at me and bet my father fifty galleons that I would have the worst temper out of all six of his children. He laughed and agreed to the bet, saying I would be as gentle as my mother.

Aunt Tess won 50 galleons before I was four.

By the age of three, the slightest thing could trigger my temper into motion…One of my five older brothers, a haughty child of a family friend, or just pure frustration. I wouldn't call them temper tantrums, but I would seethe for hours if allowed to. Everyone knew to give a hot headed McGonagall time to vent as there was no other way for them to calm down.

My father and three of my brothers, Michael, Sean, and Geoffrey, had tempers of their own. My father would narrow his eyes and seclude himself in the library, staring into the fire or out the window. Sean and Geoffrey would yell and throw things in their rooms while Michael would tear through he grounds on his broom for hours.

My mother, on the other hand, was the calmest person I have ever known. She rarely became angry, and when she did she controlled her anger well. She also had a calming affect on others. Only she could being my father out of the library or quiet my brothers down.

With her help, I learned to control my temper. Whenever I would begin to become angry, she would raise her eyebrows at me. With that look I knew to walk away from the situation. A frustrating task was to be set aside for several minutes and returned to after a calming walk. If she hadn't helped me to control my temper, I doubt I would be able to work with children such as Draco Malfoy or Neville Longbottom.

When I began my schooling at Hogwarts, my mother was no longer able to rescue me, or others, form my temper. She was only able to send me advice by owl. I didn't do very well on my own. I was quick to blow up at my fellow classmates and because of this; many avoided me as best as they could. The only time they would speak to me was if I was laughing.

Inevitably, I started an argument with my Slytherin Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I got the better of him and detention for a week. Every night at seven I was to do some meaningless task for him, which would probably have taken hours. Instead, he had to see to a family issue and I spent the nights with my Head of House, Professor Dumbledore.

Albus knew I had a temper; he was good friends with my grandfather and had taught my brothers before me. Each night of my detention we would discuss my temper and the best ways for me to control it; I am thankful for those nights.

Today, my temper is much easier to handle than when I was younger. I still get just as angry, but don't vocalize as much as I used to. Pursed lips are a sure sign that I'm trying not to let it slip. Albus still helps me with a well-placed cough or a calming hand on my lower back.

Even now I still lose my temper. Over the years, Albus and I have had many arguments, the most recent being about my confrontation with Umbridge and her goons outside of Hagrid's hut; Albus can have quite the temper himself.

I know my temper pushes people away; I've lost friends over the years because of it. I can't rid myself of my temper, but I can curb its harshness.

Thankfully, I have those who help along the way.

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End. Now, if you will kindly review, I need ideas on who to do next!


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